Warning: She Comes With Slime
It’s a Saturday evening, and I’m racing around my bedroom in a sweaty crop top and mud-smeared leggings, frantically vacuuming the small space to make it look marginally cleaner than the rest of our home. I glance at my phone for the time. It reads 6:12 p.m. Less than two hours until the start of my date. Less than two hours to transfigure from a frazzled and park-wearied mom into a charming, single young woman.
In her own bedroom, my 3-year-old daughter is putting on her fourth outfit of the day. Before I leave for a couple evening hours, I need to make sure she eats, takes a bath and gets settled in with the babysitter. I also plan to whip my normally messy two-bedroom apartment into shape, never mind the sliced fruit and dirty dishes resting in the sink. And if I could put on some foundation and a clean outfit — and miraculously keep it clean through the feeding process — that would be ideal.
More than two years of single motherhood, and I’ve yet to figure out how to seamlessly switch from one role or identity to the other. In years past, I would shave my legs and let my imagination run wild with the anticipation of having them stroked and kissed. That’s hard to do when bath time involves a little girl thoughtfully and clumsily trying to help me wash my hair — obviously not the most appropriate confidant for discussing what I hope will result from having my body cleaned and faintly scented by lavender peppermint soap.
Agreeing to go out on a Saturday night is an exception for this very reason. I try to maintain rigid boundaries between my dating life and my daughter. When Juliette innocently pries me with questions about where I’m going and why she will be hanging out with her favorite babysitter, I casually lie, “Mom has play practice tonight.” Not a big deal, I figure. After all, being at the local community theater for performances is the primary reason behind my occasional absence on weekend nights.
I wait for Juliette’s follow-up questions, but don’t anticipate many from her at this age. Although we have shared a couple bungling conversations about my purple vibrator being “mom’s special toy,” it hasn’t yet crossed her mind to consider my dating life or wonder why dad has another adult living in his house and mom has none.
Nevertheless, the almost comically absurd situation on this hectic Saturday afternoon — the lie, the frantic cleaning, the jarring juxtaposition of pondering whether I want to attempt third base while simultaneously listening for my daughter’s playful prattling from the kitchen — serves as a reminder that maneuvering around the dating scene burdened with an “I-have-a-kid” status is tricky, to say the least.
Generally, when dealing with strangers, I wait to bring up being a mom until several dates in. Partially because these minor, revolving characters have not proven they are worthy to know the star of my show or anything about her, and most won’t be in my life long enough to be affected by her existence. Partially because the emotions surrounding my status are confusing, complicated and painfully intimate, and I don’t easily trust most people to delicately handle my vulnerability.
When online conversations lengthen or one date turns into two or three, however, artfully concealing such a prominent aspect of my life is not easy to accomplish. Questions such as “Do you live alone?” or “Do you want kids?” arise, and they’re hard to skirt around gracefully. Or people begin to grow curious when I respond to queries about my availability with, “I can meet up some evening between Monday and Thursday.” What single young woman is regularly more available for a short get-together on Mondays through Thursdays than any given point over the weekend? Sooner or later, avoiding the subject just becomes awkward.
And when it happens — the big reveal, the plot twist, the somewhat defensive confession of “I’m a single mom” — I immediately feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sometimes it happens immediately and decisively. I sense an immediate shift in the conversation or in my date’s body language, the figurative or literal withdrawal of their attention and interest.
In other cases, the determination that my condition is undesirable settles later, with the realization that my bed is a twin, because that’s all I could afford when Juliette and I moved into our own apartment; or that my free time is limited and sometimes costly — averaging $8 an hour; or that discussions about my day may include rants about what transpired at my daughter’s daycare. Then it hits them, and they promptly excuse themselves from the equation.
“It’s just you and me again, babygirl,” I mentally note to my daughter, trying to take solace in our reality and that it’s much simpler with only two of us.
I try not to get defensive every time I reveal my dirty little secret. I resist the temptation to adamantly explain, in a rather pathetic attempt at positive PR, “But I’m a self-sufficient, financially and emotionally stable woman who is successfully co-parenting with her daughter’s dad, and therefore, in no need of someone to provide in any way.” After all, every person has the prerogative to set certain criteria when shuffling through potential mates. We all have unique benchmarks regarding their education, employment status, affiliation with a certain political party, or attachment to a particular hobby. Hell, some people even care about their partner looking a certain way or making what is considered an appropriate or attractive income. Many men are decidedly not shopping for women who come with accessories such as children, and that’s non-negotiable, but also fair. The problem is, my daughter is likewise non-negotiable.
She’s there. Front and center. Bathed in the spotlight.
As much as it’s true that like most single women in their 20s, I long for a companion to provide me with laughter, excellent sex and new adventures, it’s also true that I have a daughter who requires food, trips to the doctor, stability, and most of all, prioritization. I can’t hide her while potential mates first get to know me and learn why I might be worth an exception, or at least consideration. This isn’t like my inherent messiness, workaholic tendencies or nail-biting habits — there’s no potential for compromise or self-development or “working through this together.”
In the name of full-disclosure, I have to admit I occasionally struggle to not feel indignant about the subtle injustice of the situation. All humans carry with them some type of baggage, some part of themselves or their lives, internal or external, that presents a specific set of challenges or contingencies. Baggage isn’t necessarily bad. In fact, unloaded at the right time, it can provide a conducive environment for strengthening the bond between two individuals. But baggage is present. It’s dense and personal and can alter the way people perceive you or even themselves, and it requires attention.
Most people get the luxury of hiding their baggage — and the needs arising from their unique circumstances — for several weeks, or even months, until they are ready to disclose their struggles to their significant other at the convenient time. Like many others, I want so badly to maintain the illusion of being simple and uncomplicated and alluring, even for just a couple weeks while I first off-load all my positive, charming characteristics. But I can’t.
I am fortunate to not yet have encountered any terribly awkward situations, such as clueless potential suitors happening upon my daughter in my apartment, and me clumsily trying to explain, “Ah yes, this the fruit of my loins, by the way. She lives here, you know. And also, she demands a hefty portion of my time, finances, and emotional capacity.” That’s what my boundaries are made to prevent.
But try as I might to keep people at bay, to build walls or to definitively separate the two identities I waffle between, little hints of each will persistently leak through when I’m playing one role or the other.
I invite someone over to my house, and I know they’ll see the remnants of my daughter’s Mommy Days — the Frozen backpack leaning against the sofa, the bowl of half-eaten Lucky Charms leftover from breakfast, or the brightly colored toys strewn across my bathtub. They come looking for roses and candles, and encounter a plethora of fraying stuffed animals (“snugglies”) and tiny shoes instead.
This particular evening, the Saturday night exception, the guy and I are on our second date. He learned about Juliette on the first — record time by all accounts — but tonight we’re going a step further.
Enjoying a lovely sunset stroll on the paved promenade that stretches along the beachfront in my coastal hometown, he asks me to tell him about my life, which isn’t a surprising or unconventional question at this point of getting to know one another.
I try to stick to the basic information — growing up in the southwest as one of eight children, going to school in Virginia, and working as a reporter. But now, even a simple summary of my life and how I got where I am includes mention of getting pregnant almost immediately upon moving to a new state at 23. We’re walking outdoors, watching the sun sink past the ocean in a breathtaking display of crimson and coral, and the words “abortion,” “unplanned,” and “giving away” have been bandied about while I try to stay unemotional. Honestly, who wants to see their date cry during a second meetup? Especially when you’re both supposed to be enjoying a nearly flawless romantic setting?
The next day, I’m back in mom-mode and picking at neon pink slime smeared in the area rug in my living room — and also oozing out of a play tea kettle nearby. As my fingernails scratch away the gooey substance, and I struggle to process the lack of emotional intimacy that results from feeling like you have a secret to hide, I ponder if perhaps that’s exactly what I’m waiting for but too scared to hope for: A person who won’t get scared away if I split open my shell and spew intense feelings about deciding to keep my child while the rest of my life was shackled by a new, unexpected timeline with built-in delays on professional accomplishments. A person who will just get it when I express that Juliette has a dad and everything she needs, but her mom is awfully lonely and could use someone to help her escape the grind of everyday living. A person who won’t feel challenged or fazed by my limited availability for weekend trips or even staying the night. A person with whom I don’t feel the need to change my shirt — the one used to wipe a runny nose — before hanging out.
The onus is on me, I know, to unearth said person, even if that means digging up a bunch of no-gos in the process. If you don’t play the game, you’ll never win, right? Isn’t that how the saying goes?
True, like other singles my age, I yearn for those early honeymoon phases — the ones where a relationship feels exciting and effervescent and sinfully delicious, like swallowing a mouthful of whipped cream. Who doesn’t? But more than that, I want the truth. I want the courage to unburden my baggage, again and again if I have to, and to invite someone into my present reality, letting them make their own decision. And also, I want the confidence to not interpret rejection as a humiliating failure on my part or a reason to hide my mom side, or worse, my daughter.
Regardless of when or how I bring up Juliette, it will never be the right time for the wrong person. Better to learn that sooner rather than later.
Scraping out the last of the pink slime, I come to a decision (besides “no more playing with gummy material on the carpet”). Probably next time, if there is a next time, I won’t divulge to this most recent romantic contender that my daughter and I are both currently going to therapy. But maybe I won’t bother changing my outfit before we go out. And that’s a start.
